Taking Up Serpents

Miss Birdie's book (still not done) is giving me a chance to revisit The Holiness Church of JESUS Love Anointed With Signs Following from Signs in the Blood. Once again Birdie has need of Aunt Belvy's power of prophecy. And for all of those who thought Harice the preacher was hot -- he's back!



The Signs Followers base their practices of serpent handling and poison drinking on these lines from Mark:16 --

And these signs shall follow them that believe;
In my name shall they cast out devils;
They shall speak with new tongues;
They shall take up serpents;
And if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.


I've never been to a Serpent-Handling Church -- they exist in our neck of the woods but I'd feel disrespectful, like a tourist or a writer taking notes. ( If I were invited to go . . . I'd be there like a shot! Though not taking up serpents.) My research comes from two terrific books which I highly recommend for those of you who'd like to know more about this interesting sect.

The Serpent Handlers by Fred Brown and Jeanne McDonald is an up close and personal look at various believers, with a good deal told in their own words. It gives a powerful and moving insight into the motivations and beliefs of these folks who take up serpents.

The second book, Salvation on Sand Mountain by Dennis Covington is a literary account of the churches and people, beautifully told by a New York Times reporter who, in the process of learning more about the Holiness faith, discovers his own roots.

These are both wonderful books that, by taking somewhat different approaches, together give a more nearly complete picture of this unique expression of faith. And, yes, both books have some pretty amazing pictures.

I felt good about my treatment of the Signs Followers in my first book -- I had Elizabeth moved by her experience in the church and respectful of the congregation's beliefs. But in order that this return not seem like warmed-up leftovers, in this book I'm showing the church from two points of view very different from Elizabeth's: first there's Miss Birdie's niece, Myrna Lou, who is kind of freaked out at the thought of even seeing snakes, and then Miss Birdie herself, who, while not a member of this church, is very much a believer.

It's a good reminder of how a story can differ, depending on who's telling it.

Night Blooming Cereus

The Night Blooming Cereus is a difficult plant to know what to do with. Three hundred and sixty four days of the year. it's a sprawling, essentially unattractive cactus, best kept in some out of the way spot. And then it blooms and fills the air around it with intoxicating sweetness.

Each bloom is a brief miracle of complexity and enticement -- they begin to open at dusk, are in full glory by darkness, and come morning, are sad, limp reminders of the glory that has passed.

They aren't cold hardy. Mine lives in my greenhouse. And there have been years that I've missed the one night. Sometimes there's a second, lesser bloom. Sometimes I miss that too.

I once tried to paint a picture of a cereus in its various stages - bud, opening bloom, full bloom. Very daunting. But it was fun trying.

When I was growing up in Tampa, back in the Fifties, my grandparents had a Night Blooming Cereus, growing up a tall pine in their yard. They kept a careful watch on it and alerted friends as the night of blooming drew near. When the night finally came, folks would gather in the yard at dusk, sitting in lawn chairs and staring up to count the blossoms -- one memorable year there were 92. My grandmother would serve coffee and dessert and people would talk quietly as darkness fell. It was a hushed and magical time, waiting for this promised beauty.

And then, when the moment was right, my grandfather would turn a spotlight on the tree. All up and down its tall gray-brown trunk, the pale pink buds would be open, revealing their pearly interiors and spilling that amazing fragrance into the hot summer night.

And all the people would say, Ahhhh !

Ethan's Birthday

Ethan, my elder son, turns thirty five today. Lord, where does the time go? Thirty four years ago he was just learning to walk and we were at the top of the mountain, enjoying a summer day. He was the most cheerful child and a lot of the personality of the young Laurel in Old Wounds derives from him.




Thirty-three years ago and we were celebrating his second birthday under the shed of the barn we were camping in. Clifford and Louise, our neighbors down the hill, had come up for the do. There was cake and there were balloons

Ethan had a swing in the barn, right next to the kitchen area. Seems like yesterday -- and it seems like something I maybe just dreamed.

So we celebrate again with a family dinner tonight. There will be birthday presents with riddles to guess (we play the same game Elizabeth and her family did at Christmas in Dark Season) -- and I'm off to make a chocolate pound cake and count my blessings.

Kettle Bottom

I generally steer clear of books with grim covers but Kay Byer recommended this so enthusiastically that I got a copy. Oh my goodness this is a wonderful book. I think that a lot of you all would fall in love with Kettle Bottom.

A sequence of poems (with a few bits of prose) told from various points of view of folks in a West Virginia mining community during the 'mine wars' of the early Twenties, the voices are true and the stories are perfectly told. It reads like a novel by Lee Smith -- I devoured it in one sitting and wished for more.

Thank you, Kay. This is a gem.

Little Wonders Everywhere

Odds and ends that have caught my eye -- I bathed all six dogs today ( that's close to 300 pounds of dog, none of which was particularly cooperative) and have hardly an idea left in my head beyond going to bed.




I love the Dr. Seuss-like look of these clematis seed pods -- particularly their shadows. Or maybe they're space aliens.

One morning after a rain this exquisite pale yellow mushroom appeared as if by magic in my jade plant's pot .

So beautiful, its cap tilted at a jaunty angle on the sulphur-colored stem -- but by evening it had shriveled away almost to nothing.

And this solemn fellow below was in our orchard, eating windfall apples -- some of which, I suspect were fermented because he took a long time to notice me and when at last he did, rather than flying, he waddled away with a drunken roll.

I really like crows -- such big, handsome birds. And so very smart. I got to know one slightly some years ago. He had had been hit by a car and had a broken wing and a broken leg and was floundering about on the roadside. I picked him up, put him in a dark box and immediately took him to a vet.

The vet declined to treat him but told me to try splinting his leg and to cut the foot off a sock and slip the tube that was left over the bird's body to immobilize his wing in hopes of letting it heal. I did this and for six weeks the crow lived in a big dog crate on a table in our kitchen, growing fat on hard-boiled eggs and dog food. I didn't attempt to tame him -- just gave him food and water, kept his cage clean, and went about my business. He watched everything and was supremely calm in what must have been a very confusing situation. My respect for him grew daily.

After some time I removed the splint and the sock and the crow began to flap his wings, as if he were exercising. After a few days of watching him rehabilitate himself, I took the cage outside and opened the door. He stepped out, looked around to get his bearings, and took off for the woods, flying with slow, steady wing beats, never looking back.

Fun on the Farm

WARNING: Don't read this if you can't deal with the realities of farm life. It has a pretty good ending though.


"Are you having a great day?" asked the very perky girl behind the coffee bar in the grocery store.

"Actually, no," I told her as I waited for the overpriced coffee slushee that was my self-bestowed award for making it thus far. "But it's improving." (The picture above of Justin's dog Ali Ali is meant to be a representation of my mood in the face of all that perkiness.)

So what was my problem? I'm posting this because some people see my life as a sort of pastoral idyll -- picking flowers and tomatoes, rocking on the porch, etc. And those good parts are what I generally talk about. But then there are days like today.

My younger son called early this morning to tell me there was a very young calf whose mother didn't seem to have any milk and whose rear end (Okay, Ann C., you'd better stop reading right now) was covered with maggots and some of the hair had been eaten off. My husband, who normally would deal with this, is out of town so I put aside my plans for writing and hoeing and headed down the hill to where the calf was.

I'll spare you all the details, which were pretty disgusting, but after hosing the baby off while Justin held her and making sure there were no wounds, I headed off for the farm supply store in search of some sort of fly repellent/ointment. And a bulb syringe. (Don't ask.)

No luck at the nearby store (twenty minutes away) so I went on to one farther (twenty more minutes) away. Here, no one in the store seemed to know much about cattle. I then went to a vet who shook his head and said just to use fly spray -- whatever it took to kill the maggots.

Back home once more to find the baby looking as if she felt better. She had nursed and Mama Cow's bag was full. So that had been a false alarm. Then, with the help of younger son and girlfriend, there was more hosing, flushing of rear orifices with cider vinegar and water, topical application of peroxide, finishing up with a Pepto Bismal pink ointment said to be antibiotic and fly repellent. Mama Cow anxious and having to be warded off; dogs fascinated, calf indignant, Vicki with tiny maggots crawling up her forearms.

The calf looks pretty awful but I know she feels better. Here's a picture of her mama licking her nose after the ordeal. The pink is the ointment.

And here, in the foreground is the calf we were bottle-feeding -- now weaned and eating grass and calf feed.

Not the day I'd planned -- but the day I got. Could have been worse.

Sunday At Random

The chicks are at that awkward teenage stage -- not exactly cute anymore and full of attitude. If they could, they would probably have pimples and play loud music. They fly up and perch on top of the waterer and feeder, which, because of the poop problem, we have had to thwart by topping the tanks with cut-off milk jug tops. They pounce on bits of grass and dirt, scratching vigorously in search of bugs. When one finds a treasure, the others pursue her around the brooder, trying to steal it.

The two HUGE white chicks are Rock Cornish -- they're going to the person who ordered them next week when we get together for a chick swap. It's amazing how they have grown -- but that's what they're meant to do, being intended for the table.

I'm still enjoying my clothesline --so much so that it inspired a little memory for Miss Birdie to talk about in the work in progress. I posted it on my monthly blog on Amazon, if you're interested.

A word about Amazon: I hope all of you know that I am a strong advocate for local independent bookstores -- always my first choice when telling folks where to buy my books. But my books are available on Amazon -- and I began a monthly blog there over two years ago and have met some nice folks through it. No pictures, and the posts are more formal, more like essays.

A Day's Delight

Daylilies are one of the most forgiving flowers a gardener can plant. They don't ask much -- sun for most of the day and a bit of water -- they'll grow in most soils, will survive through too much or too little rain, and can be transplanted all through the growing season. Once established, they multiply, so you'll have plenty to spread around and share with friends.

The common orange daylily (not pictured here) grows wild all along our roadsides and it's a cheerful and welcome sight but now . . . now there are hybrids in purples, yellows, pinks, corals,, reds -- almost everything but blue.

Some are fragrant; some bloom early and some late; some have long thin spider petals; others go in for ruffles. There's always another gorgeous specimen to arouse the lust of the daylily lover.

A bloom lasts only a day, hence the name, but each stem carries many buds -- around here the daylily season goes on for almost two months.

But wait! -- There's more! The unopened buds can be added to stir fries and for a fancy treat the open flowers can be dipped in tempura batter and fried in deep oil in a wok to produce a lovely, lacy, slightly onion-flavored addition to a meal.

Delightful daylilies!

Perimeter Shopping

Maybe true wealth is measured, not by what you can buy, but by what you don't want or need to buy.

A trip to Sam's yesterday inspired that thought -- I go there for olive and canola oil, cleaning and paper products, vitamins, and the occasional bag of nuts or dried fruit. It thrills me that there are entire aisles and sections of the store I never need to consider.

It's the same at the grocery store -- more and more I shop the perimeter of the store -- produce, meat, dairy, wine -- and give the aisles of snacks and prepared stuff a miss. Of course there are exceptions to this perimeter thing - flour, pasta, pet food, coffee. (And I've already admitted to potato chips with chicken salad.)

I haven't yet read Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle in which she and her family spend a year eating only (or mostly) locally grown, seasonal food. To attempt this discipline would be a worthy goal; and, for folks like us with a farm, should certainly be achievable. Clifford and Louise who lived here before us, ate mostly local seasonal fare -- but they ate beans and corn and potatoes, day after day with only small seasonal variations. ( They were fond of bananas for banana pudding but I could give the bananas a miss if I could still have olive oil and coffee.)

We've been spoiled by relatively cheap, out of season food -- asparagus from Chile, strawberries year round from all over, shrimp from Thailand. But the cheap part of the equation is rapidly disappearing and we're beginning to think about changes.

My husband recommends two books by Michael Pollan -- The Omnivore's Dilemma and In Defense of Food. I haven't read either yet but am charmed by Pollan's simple suggestion:

EAT FOOD, NOT TOO MUCH, MOSTLY PLANTS.

Sounds like a plan.

In Appreciation of Summer Rain

Cloudburst, cascade, cataract . . . it rained.

Drenching deluge, downpour . . . it rained.

It ran, meandered, gushed and poured.
It spouted and splashed and spurted,
dropped, dripped, and dribbled,
streamed and surged and
~~~ f l o w e d ~~~~

and then,
it stopped.
Rising mists wreathed the mountains,
readying for another day . . .
another rain.

Rose of Sharon

Its botanical name is Althea, which is a pretty name from Greek mythology, but I always knew it as Rose of Sharon. When we moved to the mountains, we brought with us three small Rose of Sharons from my grandparents' yard, descendants of others that had made the trip from Troy, Alabama to Florida. We planted our three by the barn where we were living and today, they tower above us and their descendants are all over the place. It's a hardy plant that produces lots of seeds -- too many, some would say.

I'm partial to our shrubs, just because of the sentimental tie, but they're common in yards around here. And when I heard a neighbor describe them as "Rosasharn," I remembered the young girl from Grapes of Wrath who bore that name.

Local pronunciation had me baffled for quite a while. Once a neighbor gave me an apple, bragging on how good it tasted and what a long keeper it was. After a bite, I asked for the name, thinking we would plant a tree of this fine apple. He told me the name and I carefully wrote it down -- Yarkin Pearl. I wondered where or who Yarkin was but didn't find out till I began to peruse a catalogue of antique apple varieties.

Try I never so hard, I couldn't find the Yarkin Pearl. I did, however, find what I was looking for -- the York Imperial.

A Lovesome Thing

The garden is starting to 'come in,' as we say around here. The squash are already getting away from me and I've consigned several lunkers to the chickens -- I mean, there's only so much zucchini bread up with which my family will put. But some of these young ones appeared tonight, stuffed with breadcrumbs and onions and topped with bacon (for extra flavor, as we prefer it.)

The first almost-ripe tomato has me dreaming of fresh mozzarella and basil -- or BLTs. (There's that bacon again.)





In spite of clear evidence that deer have eaten the tops off many bean plants, there was a nice mess of thin young Blue Lakes for dinner (Miss Birdie would be appalled at how young I pick them -- no 'bean' to them a-tall!)

And there was lettuce, a few asparagi (time to quit cutting these and let them build their strength for next year,) a green pepper, basil, and three beautiful, long cucumbers to complete my morning harvest.

"A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot" said Thomas Edward Brown, in his poem "My Garden" and so it is -- especially in this early stage.

I was checking this quote in my Bartlett's when, just above it I found a small series of garden-related lines from Charles Dudley Warner's My Summer in a Garden (1870).

The progression of his sentiments is revealing.

Preliminary -before starting his garden, CDW wrote:

"To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds and watch the renewal of life -- this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory thing a man can do.

By the third week, he had made a discovery:

"What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it."

And by the sixteenth week:

"The thing generally raised on city land is taxes."

I think I detect a growing sense of disillusionment -- I know, from my own experience, that there will come a time in late summer when, though the garden is still offering a few stunted tomatoes and the peppers are thriving, for the most part it's bug-eaten, weedy and blighted. That's when I'll begin to think fondly of a killing frost